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‘This exercise was not simply to test your taijutsu skills,’ justified Sensei Kyuzo, his expression once again severe and pitiless. ‘It was to see how you reacted under pressure of battle. It also tested zanshin – your awareness of your surroundings and enemy. If you are to have any hope of surviving a war, you must apply zanshin at all times.’

‘But Akiko had won!’ exclaimed Jack, incensed by his teacher’s vindictiveness. ‘She was –’

‘No,’ snapped Sensei Kyuzo, cutting Jack off with a withering look. ‘She wasn’t the Last Samurai Standing. I am.’

27

KUKAI

Snow blanketed the Niten Ichi Ryū’s courtyard, its crisp white surface peppered with footprints that crossed from the Shishi-no-ma to the Chō-no-ma and on to the Hall of the Hawk. The tiered roofs of the buildings were caked in snow and the eaves hung heavy with glistening icicles. Even the ancient pine tree in the Southern Zen Garden struggled to hold its shape, the branches drooping like a cascade of frozen miniature waterfalls.

Inside the Taka-no-ma, the students shivered despite their thick winter kimonos, their breath misting in the chill air. Sensei Nakamura sat with her guest, the renowned poet Saigyo, upon the polished wooden dais furthest from the door. Saigyo was a small, unassuming man with sleepy eyes and large rounded ears. He wore a plain bowl-shaped hat and by his side was a weatherworn bamboo walking stick. Taking time to admire the mural of the swooping hawk on the ceiling, he warmed his hands in front of a clay hibachi. The students gazed enviously at the small charcoal brazier that Sensei Nakamura had reserved for their honoured guest.

‘Glowing coals

melt away the icicles –

Ah! I have hands.’

A serene smile spread across the poet’s face at his composition, and so light and feathery was his voice the haiku seemed to float on the air.

Sensei Nakamura initiated a polite round of applause, which quickly spread throughout the hall. The clapping was enthusiastic, mostly because it provided an opportunity for the students to warm their own numb hands.

‘We shall commence the kukai,’ said Sensei Nakamura with solemn ceremony. ‘Those who consider they have a haiku of merit may step forward. Each of you in turn will present your poem to our esteemed guest. Saigyo-san will deliver his verdict and announce the winner once all the haiku have been heard.’

Several students rose to their feet and began to form an orderly line down one side of the hall.

‘Are you coming up, Jack?’ asked Saburo, wielding a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

‘You must be joking,’ replied Jack. ‘You know what Sensei Nakamura thinks of my efforts.’

Saburo laughed. ‘Well, wish me luck. I think you’ll like mine!’

As Saburo eagerly joined the queue, Yori crept past.

‘Good luck!’ whispered Jack.

‘Thanks,’ replied Yori in nervous excitement and joined the queue.

‘Let the first poet deliver their haiku,’ announced Saigyo, rubbing his thighs in eager anticipation. ‘May it be a drop of dew in an autumn pond.’

Sensei Nakamura beckoned Akiko forward. Bowing low in respect, she took her haiku out of the pocket sleeve of her kimono. Jack thought Akiko looked even more anxious than when she’d shot the arrow at Sensei Kyuzo.

‘Winter was my inspiration,’ she began.

‘The purple iris

beneath the white blanket sleeps –

there sprouts hope!’

Having read her haiku, Akiko bowed again and awaited the poet’s verdict. Saigyo took a deep breath and gazed out of the window at the falling snowflakes. Akiko glanced in Jack’s direction, her brow furrowing in concern at the poet’s lack of response. Jack smiled back, trying to comfort her, then realized she was looking past him to the end of the haiku line where Takuan was nodding his head earnestly. Akiko seemed reassured. Jack felt a pang of envy at the exchange.

‘Like spring, your haiku is fresh, clear and promises much,’ spoke Saigyo eventually, much to Akiko’s relief. ‘Yet will it be the best blossom of the day? We shall see.’

He gave Akiko a polite clap, then